


My Blogger

by The_Inebriated_Literary_Virtuoso



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, John takes care of him, M/M, Sherlock is sick, read at your own peril
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-27
Updated: 2014-05-27
Packaged: 2018-01-26 20:00:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,122
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1700705
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Inebriated_Literary_Virtuoso/pseuds/The_Inebriated_Literary_Virtuoso
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Are you feeling it now, Mr. Crabs?</p></blockquote>





	My Blogger

When John first moved into 221B Baker Street he was surprised that he had gotten such an anomaly for a flatmate. Sherlock Holmes was an enigma in an enigma wrapped in a swirl of dramatic flair and high cheekbones. It took John Watson two years and The Fall to realize that Sherlock Holmes was much more important to him than he had deluded himself to believe. John did not cry for his mother's death. He did not cry when Harriet had chosen to waste away on booze and more booze. John did not cry when his father died while he was in Afghanistan. John _did_ cry for Sherlock.   
John spent two years trying to understand how the ruining of a reputation had led Sherlock to jump off of St. Bart's. And John never got over the irony of Sherlock jumping off of a hospital.

When Sherlock came back John was beside himself with rage. His elation turned to blinding venom as he punch Sherlock, more than twice, and watched him bleeding. The man was alive, was bleeding, and talking, and walking, and breathing. **_Alive._** It took him two weeks to adjust to the way Sherlock had come back and what it meant for John and Sherlock. They began solving crimes again and those feelings John had come to terms with for two years were in over-drive. Those feelings refused to be stifled when they had been silenced and unsatiated for so long. John ran around London, being the Good Doctor, and all the while kept his feelings as repressed as they had been when he was in denial. It didn't prove to be difficult at all until one day Sherlock was acting weird. And then John had acted weird. And then everything had been weird and they kissed and it made everything much more simpler.

 

They were married three years later and five years after that they had two children.   
Life went by fast for the Watson-Holmes'. Henry Mycroft Holmes went into the family business as an official Consultant and Corina Watson-Holmes had been Mycroft's assistant by the time she was twenty. The children had been raised in a kind household, filled with many lazy Saturdays, sun-filled Sundays, busy weeks, lots of crime scenes, enjoyable birthdays, and warm holidays. They had grown fast and John and Sherlock had been wary but accepting that they had to at some point. They had grown together as a family, making each person stronger, making the family a unit of unity and strength and in Sherlock's eyes, he believed that something of that calliber would never had happened to him had he not met John Watson. John Watson, the Good Doctor, who had been so patient, and waited. Oh how he waited for Sherlock Holmes to preform one last miracle. John Watson who taught Sherlock that caring was the **_best_** advantage. John Watson who had raised two children with him and united him with Mycroft once more after years of disfunctional loneliness.John Watson who had made him live, by dying.

They retired when John was fifty, to a home in a cozy cottage in West Sussex and Sherlock took to raising bees while John read books to pass the time and was glad to have time to rest after all those years running around London with his mad genius. They enjoyed slow days, sleeping in, and relaxing in bed all day as they got older. Their matching silver bands glinted when the sunlight caught them as they lay in bed in the late mornings day after day.  
It was when Sherlock was seventy five that he got sick.   
He had gotten a flu that had, because of his old age, only gotten progressively worse. He became weak, frail, like those early days when they were younger, more lively. He could not get out of bed and John tended to him like the good doctor he was. He made sure to not let himself be deluded at all by the sad reality of the situation. Sherlock Holmes was going to die within the month because of pneumonia.

In two weeks Corina and Henry had arrived to stay with his father as well as Mycroft, Greg, and Molly Hooper. They all sat with him, and talked with him in his bed and he was comforted by the fact that he was, for once, wrong in his assumptions from his youth. He would not die alone. And he would not die unloved.  Molly told him about her daughter's son, how cute he was, how he was just like Sherlock in that he loved pirates. She said that although she was married she could see her grand children looking up to Sherlock Holmes, London's hero. Mycroft and Greg told him about their grand-daughters and how their daughters had been to visit and missed their uncle and would visit within the week.   
On the last day Sherlock Holmes lived he knew. He just knew as he knew all things that he was to be gone from this world. All of his family had been there, cousins, nieces, nephews, grandchildren, everyone. He ordered all but John to leave the room.   
He looked at John solemnly. "You know what is happening?"  
John nodded sadly, fighting the moisture in his eyes. "Yes."  
Sherlock wiped his stray tears. "John, don't cry. It'll be okay."  
They didn't say anything for a moment as John looked at him, truly looked at him for one more time. His bright eyes, eyes that had not stopped being sharp as they had aged together. John had spent more than thirty years trying to understand why a man so ingenious, so amazing, so brilliant, so inventive and lively had chosen boring old John Watson to be his companion.   
"Why? After all these years, why me to be your companion?" John asked, wanting the answer before it was lost to him forever.   
Sherlock grinned weakly. "It's elementary, my dear Watson." He let out a shaking breath.  
Sherlock gasped and looked up at the ceiling, his eyes glazed, frightened. "It's coming, John. It's coming."  
The tears were freely falling down John's face as he went to get up to leave. "I can't watch this."  
Sherlock gripped his wrist tightly and looked at him. He looked at him in that way he had looked at him all those years ago that showed he knew him, knew everything about him, could see him, and in this simple stare Sherlock was laying his soul bare for John Watson to take. "Don't go. Please. I'd be lost without my blogger."  
And before that hand went slack and those eyes went blank John swore he saw the biggest smile to ever grace the lips of Sherlock Holmes.

**Author's Note:**

> Are you feeling it now, Mr. Crabs?


End file.
